


Dr. No

by py_pippi_pixy



Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 08:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18824746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/py_pippi_pixy/pseuds/py_pippi_pixy
Summary: Set post-"Cyberwoman."  LOL CLICHES  This was supposed to be longer but I changed my mind, so if there's problems with flow or anything please feel free to point them out.  Concrit is always welcomed with open clingy arms. Suicidal ideation warning.





	Dr. No

Ianto seriously considered suicide afterward, for the first time since the tower burned.  The first night after Lisa died (after Jack  _murdered_ her) Tosh brought him home with her, presumably under orders and probably to keep him from eating a bullet.  
  
The first night he thought about taking her gun (Jack had confiscated his).  Tosh fell asleep for forty-five minutes during the geologist scene in  _Dr. No_ , slumped on the other end of her couch.  He went so far as to take it out of her purse, easing the bag from between her sock feet.  The gun was heavy in his hand, though smaller than his own model.  It felt smooth and faintly oily - Tosh must have cleaned it earlier in the day,  _before_ -  
  
He tested the weight, hands dry and steady.  The barrel was cold when he rested it against his temple, the metal pressing against the blood still dried through his hair and on his face.  The thought of the bullet ricocheting on some unfortunate path through his skull made him reconsider.  Possibly the only way to make his life worse was to end up as a vegetable - he was fairly certain he'd read about this happening to people.  
  
He repositioned the gun, barrel resting on his bottom lip, mouth slightly open.  He almost burst into hysterical laughter at the juxtaposition of his muscle memories.  He'd started sucking Jack's cock like this the very first time, coyly, feigning some degree of innocence.  He'd known as soon as he left the warehouse the night he'd gotten hired it would come to that, sooner more likely than later.  Jack might not be huge on intuiting motive, Ianto thought, but one had to concede he knew sexual  _flexibility_ when he saw it.  
  
He could taste the bitter metal against his tongue.  Above him, Tosh sighed in her sleep, twisting against the arm of the couch.  Ianto was suddenly aware of his bruised knees objecting to the hardwood floor.  
  
He couldn't do this to Tosh, he decided.  She was the closest thing to a friend he'd allowed himself to have in Cardiff, and blowing his brains out with her gun, with her asleep in her own apartment, was a measure of guilt he was unwilling to lay on her.  He probably could have done it to Owen, and certainly could have wrapped his lips around Jack's Webley and smiled at the man as he pulled the trigger - but not Tosh.  
  
He quietly slid the pistol back into her purse and repositioned it between her feet.  Stiffly clambering up, he gently shook her shoulder.  
  
"You fell asleep," he whispered, watching as she started awake.  When she blearily asked him what time it was he showed her his watch, and did not protest when she led him toward the shower.  
  
***  
  
The next morning he declined Tosh's offer to let him stay another day, telling her he needed time alone.  She watched him make her coffee with wide, worried eyes and nervously restless hands.  He told her not to worry, and thanked her, and drank the mug of black coffee she pressed into his hands after he switched her kettle off.  
  
He also declined an offer of a ride home and a call for a taxi.  He did accept the remains of his ruined suit in a plastic bag and a hesitant kiss on the cheek while she stood on her toes.  Thankfully after that he was allowed to duck out the door before the cycle could restart.  
  
The thought of being enclosed in the metal box of the building's elevator made him sick, so he took the nine flights down, slowly, ruined loafers making odd raspy sounds on the concrete steps.  When he made it into the bright sunlight outside, he promptly turned into the first alley, throwing the bagged suit into an open Dumpster.  A quick flash of sensory memory, blood soaking through cloth and pooling in his hands, took his unsettled stomach and twisted it sharply.  
  
He vomited coffee and bile onto the dank pavement for several minutes, and dry-heaved for several after that.  A middle-aged man walking from the bus stop stared from the sidewalk and shook his head.   
  
Ianto considered for a moment actually going through with the hysterical laughter, but settled for wiping his mouth with his sleeve and throwing away his blood-stained shoes.  After a moment the now-dull brown socks followed.  And now he really did look like a drunk, or a crazy person, but as he wasn't entirely sure the second one didn't apply (maybe actually since Canary Wharf), he decided not to hold it against anyone who gave him a second look or spare change.  
  
Spare change probably couldn't hurt, he reflected, since he was going to have to take a cab home.  There was no way any bus was going to take him home looking like this.  
  
***  
  
When he got home he went straight to bed.  When he woke up all he remembered dreaming about was ways he could have fixed her.


End file.
